THE SWEET CHEAT

By Meg Alexander

A Journey of the Heart

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse! When Edward,Viscount Lyndhurst arrived on Georgiana Westleigh’s doorstep, he had the sorry task of telling her that her brothers had fled to France not to avoid creditors, but because they had committed fraud. Edward was headed across the Channel to sort out the mess, and the last thing he needed was the lovely chit along on the hazardous journey. But she was not about to be left behind.

Georgiana wasn’t sure whether she could trust this brusque nobleman. But the more time she spent in Edward’s company, with no chaperone in sight, the more her heart began to rule her head .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin Historical
• Release date: Feb 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781459231511

Meg Alexander

Meg Alexander has been writing since childhood. Her first efforts were plays to be performed by her brothers, sister and cousins as family entertainment at Christmas time.    She married at nineteen and had a son. During his childhood she concentrated on freelance journalism, writing on crime, psychology, gardening, travel and cookery. At thirty-eight the breakdown of her marriage brought the need to earn more money. For the next twenty years she claims to have ‘lived on her wits', becoming a representative for a textile firm in the north of England, and a professional cook in exalted circles. Then she moved into administration, as Assistant Director of the British Red Cross Society's Conference Centre, and later managing a large Hall of Residence for students of King's College, London.    During this time she gained a BA Degree from the Open University. When Meg retired she moved to Spain, where she wrote a weekly gardening column for an English language newspaper. The Costa Blanca News, and travel and cookery pieces for Inter-express. After eight years the call of grandchildren was too strong and she moved back to England, settling first in Kent and then in East Sussex.    She began to write historical fiction, encouraged by winning first prize in a competition run by Writers' News for the best opening chapter of a historical romance. The judge was a senior editor from Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd. She asked to see the rest of the book, but even after two re-writes it wasn't considered suitable for publication. The same thing happened with a second book, but Meg was third-time lucky. The Last Enchantment, a Regency Romance was published in 1995.

Book preview

Chapter One

‘Georgie, you can’t mean it! You must come with me. How can I leave you here alone?’ Harry Westleigh gazed at his sister in dismay.

‘There is no time to argue, Hal. Lothmore’s chaise will be here at any minute. Now sit on this trunk whilst I finish packing for you.’ With flying fingers Georgiana continued her task. ‘You have money enough for the journey?’

‘Yes!’ Harry’s voice was muffled as he hid his face in his hands. ‘But I won’t abandon you to face…to face…’

‘Your creditors? It won’t be pleasant, I’ll grant you, but better that than visit you in a debtors’ prison. Here, you had best take this.’ She handed him a small leather bag chinking with coins. ‘You’ll not gamble it away before you reach Dover?’

Her bother raised an anguished face. ‘It will leave you penniless. I can’t… I won’t… Oh, my dear, I am so sorry…’

‘It’s too late for regrets!’ His sister’s voice was tart, but a glance at Harry’s averted profile caused her to continue in a kinder tone. ‘I’ll join you in France, Hal, but now the important thing is for you to get away.’ She glanced through the window. ‘Make haste! The chaise is just turning into the street. Quickly now! We cannot know when the first of the duns will be at the door.’

Harry cast a last look around the room.

‘I shan’t ever see this place again,’ he mourned. ‘If only there were more time. Had Swarby not made up his mind to ruin me at the club last night… He called me a swindler, you know.’

‘Do come along!’ Georgiana caught at his sleeve, tugging him towards the doorway in her impatience. ‘I’ll come to Dessein’s in Calais. Send me your direction as soon as you can.’

‘I’ll stay at Dessein’s too.’

‘You most certainly will not. Only think…if you are followed it is the obvious place to find you.’ She pushed him ahead of her towards the staircase, following until they reached the outer door to the street.

‘Wait! Let me go first. There may be someone watching even now.’ With anxious eyes she peered out into the darkness, but the only sound was that of the horses snorting and stamping on the cobblestones as the chaise drew to a halt.

‘All’s well!’ she whispered. ‘Now hurry! You’ll find our own coach waiting across the river!’ Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, and closed the door upon his protestations. Then she sped upstairs and hurried over to the window. Long after the coach had disappeared she strained to see into the darkness, dreading the sound of pursuit, but all was silence.

At last, weak with relief, she sagged into a chair. The nervous energy which had sustained her for the past few hours had disappeared, leaving her feeling tired to death. Dully, she looked about her at a scene of chaos. Drawers lay on the floor, their contents spilling out; the bed was littered with shirts of the finest lawn, embroidered waistcoats, snowy linen stocks, handkerchiefs, and pale buckskins.

She lifted a hand to ring the bell. Then she remembered. She had dismissed the servants that very day.

She forced herself to rise to her feet. What she needed most of all was sleep. She hadn’t closed her eyes the previous night, and now she felt that any further action was beyond her. It was an effort to cross the landing to her own room, and a greater one to struggle out of her gown unaided and slip into her bedrobe.

She splashed cold water on to her hands and face, dried them, and then picked up her hairbrush. As she did so she caught sight of her face in the mirror. It didn’t seem possible that she could look so unchanged when her whole world had collapsed about her in less than twenty-four hours.

True, she looked tired, the milky whiteness of her skin accentuated by her fashionable crop of burnished copper curls. Against her pallor, huge green eyes glittered like an emerald sea darkened by cloud. Sick with exhaustion, she was close to tears as she threw down the brush and turned towards her bed.

Then she froze at the sound of thunderous knocking. The noise must surely rouse the neighbourhood, and she had no doubt of the likely profession of her late-night visitor. It would most certainly be a dun. Could she pretend that the house was empty? It wasn’t possible. Her candles were still alight and would be visible through the chink in the curtains.

Terror banished weariness as she retraced her steps to the front door. Somehow she must throw the man off Harry’s trail. She caught up a worn blue cloak hanging in the hall. One of the maids must have forgotten it. Having drawn the hood over her hair, she opened the door the merest fraction.

The thrust of a powerful shoulder sent it crashing wide before she could protest, and she jumped. The man before her was a sinister figure. Immensely tall, he filled the doorway, his bulk accentuated by a riding cloak with many capes. She could not see his face, as the lower part was hidden by his high collar, whilst the brim of his hat served to conceal his eyes.

Georgiana’s mind was racing. Even in the darkness she could see that this was no dun, but it did not matter. He was still her enemy, and Harry’s too. Who else would call at such an hour? Harry had canvassed all his friends for help the previous day, without success. It seemed unlikely that her visitor had come to offer succour. She must convince him that she knew nothing.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ She bobbed a curtsy.

‘I’m here to see your master, girl.’

Without further ceremony the man pushed past her into the hall. His bearing and the authoritative tone proclaimed him every inch the aristocrat, and she stepped back in dismay. Her own gentle breeding might have been of some service in handling a dun, but this was a different matter. The man was clearly in a thundering rage. All she could do was to play the part of the ignorant servant he imagined her to be.

‘Mr Westleigh is not yet returned, sir,’ Georgiana bobbed another curtsy. ‘Most likely you will find him at his club.’

A short, unpleasant laugh greeted this remark.

‘He is not at his club, not any other, I assure you. I propose to wait for him.’ The man shouldered past her without a by-your-leave, and slammed the door behind him.

‘You may bring me some wine,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll be in here.’ He threw open the nearest door and walked into the salon. ‘You had best light the candles.’

Georgiana picked up a flint, but she could not control her shaking fingers as she tried to strike it.

‘Here, let me! There’s no need to take fright. I mean you no harm.’ As he busied himself with the candles Georgiana slipped out of the room.

This was a pretty pass indeed. She could not hope to fool him for long, and she could guess his errand. He must be one of those members of the nobility whom Harry was said to have swindled. Hastily she grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and placed them on a silver tray. With any luck he might drink deep and perhaps lost interest in an all-night vigil.

When she returned to the salon the man was lounging in a chair beside the dying embers of the fire, long legs stretched out in front of him as he tapped impatiently on a small drum-table. He eyed her without interest.

‘Do you always perform your duties in that strange attire?’ he questioned.

Georgiana started. She had forgotten the old cloak and the fact that the hood was drawn about her head.

‘Beg pardon, sir! I was in my bed when you arrived.’

‘You may retire.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Your master’s man shall attend me.’

Panic seized Georgiana. She had no wish to explain that she was alone in the house. In silence she set down the tray, turning away from him. She was unprepared for the shock when a lean brown hand shot out and gripped her by the wrist.

‘Sir, please let me go,’ she whined. ‘I’m only a poor serving wench.’

‘Are you indeed? With hands like those? Come, my dear, you can do better than that.’ In a single movement he was on his feet, thrusting back the hood of her cloak. A quick tug at the strings caused the garment to fall to the ground, and Georgiana stood before him in her bedrobe.

‘Wages must have increased since I was last in England,’ he observed smoothly as he fingered the filmy lawn. ‘This creation, if I am not much mistaken, is the work of a fashionable modiste, and has cost a fair number of golden guineas.’

He was rewarded with a glance of pure hatred from Georgiana’s jade-green eyes as she looked up at him for the first time. Scarlet with confusion, she was not reassured by what she saw.

Her tormentor was a man in his middle thirties, at a guess, and there was something deeply unnerving in the mocking curve of that wide and mobile mouth. He was heavily tanned, and the blue gaze which transfixed her spoke of arrogance, authority, and a total lack of pity. He was not a man of whom she would care to beg for mercy.

She had no intention of doing so. Still rosy with embarrassment, she bent to pick up the cloak.

‘Blushing? Great heavens! Is that a part of your stock-in-trade? You do well to cultivate it. It is a lost art among the ladies of the town. I must compliment Westleigh. Whatever his faults, he has taste in women.’

A careless glance swept her from head to toe. ‘The figure is voluptuous, and this charming garment does little to conceal it, especially when outlined against the light.’ He smiled again as he reached out to finger the neckline of her bedrobe.

Georgiana jumped as if she had been stung. It was true. Seen against the candlelight this garment left little to the imagination. With what dignity she could command she wrapped her cloak about her.

Her tormentor laughed.

‘A waste of time, my dear. You cannot conceal the hair. Ah, yes, the hair…’

To Georgiana’s utter fury he wound a flame-coloured strand around his fingers. ‘Quite exceptional…if a little outré. Is the colour your own, my dear?’

Georgiana raised a hand to strike him, but he was too quick for her. Her wrist was held so fast that she gasped with pain.

‘I should not consider it,’ he advised. ‘Now tell me, where is your paramour?’

Dropping all pretence, Georgiana faced him squarely.

‘My brother,’ she emphasised heavily, ‘is well beyond your reach. You may say what you have to say to me.’

The stranger stared at her. ‘He cannot have left you to face the music? I suppose it is only to be expected…’

‘How dare you speak of him so? You know nothing…of the circumstances.’

‘I fear I do. I have a younger brother myself. I was not overly pleased, to put it mildly, to return from the West Indies to find him in deep financial trouble, caused, I believe, by Westleigh.’

‘They are not the first to make unwise investments.’ Georgiana flew at once to her brother’s defence. ‘Cleverer men than they have come to grief…’

‘Through fraud?’

‘No, no! That cannot be! Harry would not…could not…’

‘How else would you describe a promise to provide annuities in return for a cash lump sum, and then be unable to honour the commitment?’

‘But he will… He must…’

‘My dear young lady, he cannot. The money is gone, I suspect, on supporting a lifestyle which neither he nor my brother can afford. It involved gambling, horses, and, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning such indelicate matters, the support of certain ladies of the town.’

‘I do not believe you,’ Georgiana said, wavering. ‘Harry could not have planned such a scheme. He is not clever enough.’

The words brought a look of contempt to her companion’s face.

‘He was clever enough to take the money and use it,’ came the biting reply. ‘now he must face the consequences.’

Georgiana paled to the lips, swaying where she stood.

‘Nay, you shall not pretend that you did not know.’ The man put out a hand to steady her, but she pulled away as if his touch would burn her. ‘Look about you, Miss Westleigh. You have lived to the hilt, it would appear, at the expense of others.’

Following his gaze, Georgiana stared at the charming little salon as if seeing it for the first time. The walls, painted in palest green, were a perfect foil for the soft colours of the Aubusson carpet. They threw into relief the graceful lines of her much prized furniture made of rosewood and mahogany by the hand of a master craftsman. A china cabinet in the corner held a collection of expensive bibelots and Sèvres porcelain.

As her eyes returned to her tormentor the small gold clock on the alabaster mantelshelf struck the hour of three.

‘It did not occur to you to question the cost of all this luxury, or to ask how your brother could afford it?’

‘Harry won large sums at White’s,’ she faltered.

‘And lost more. Now let us have done with this charade. You will kindly inform me of your brother’s whereabouts.’

Georgiana decided to play for time. ‘I do not know you, sir, and your manner towards me has given me no cause to trust you.’

‘Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward, Viscount Lyndhurst. I think you know my brother, Richard Thorpe.’

Georgiana’s eyes grew wide. At the discovery of her visitor’s identity she felt robbed of the power of speech.

Impatient now, the Viscount awaited her reply. Getting none, he seized her wrist again and his blue eyes hardened further.

‘You will tell me, madam, I assure you.’ The deep voice was soft, but it held more menace than if he had shouted aloud. It terrified her.

‘Let me go!’ she cried in panic. She knew of the Viscount’s reputation. According to his brother he was a ruthless tyrant who would stop at nothing to get his way. ‘A cold fish’, was the kindest description she had heard of him. Only during the Viscount’s absence in the Indies had Richard enjoyed a respite from his cruelty.

As she raised her eyes to Lyndhurst’s face she could believe his brother’s words. Perhaps it was some trick of the light upon those aquiline features, or only the result of her overwrought imagination, but as he bent towards her he reminded her of some great bird of prey closing in upon his kill.

‘You have heard of me, I see.’ He laughed again, and it was not a pleasant sound. He had read her mind as easily as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

Gathering all her courage, Georgiana faced him squarely. ‘Your treatment of your brother does you no credit. Your reputation has preceded you—but you shall not injure mine.’

‘Others will do that, Miss Westleigh.’ Lyndhurst glanced round the room again. ‘You know, of course, that all your assets will be sequestered by the sheriff?’

‘I…I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean that your home and its contents will be sold to pay your brother’s creditors. By this time next week you could be turned out of doors with no roof above your head. What will you do?’

Georgiana felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice. Her heart began to thump unpleasantly, and nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She had given Harry her last few guineas, believing that the sale of their home and its contents would raise enough money to provide them with funds for a year or two. Now, it appeared, she would be penniless, and without even the means to travel to France.

‘Doubtless it does not concern you,’ the mocking voice continued. ‘You are, perhaps, an heiress in your own right?’

The sarcasm cut Georgiana to the quick, but it had the opposite effect to that which the Viscount had intended. Her fear of him vanished. This time he had gone too far.

‘Do you dare to call yourself a gentleman?’ she enquired coolly. ‘If so, I hope not to meet another such. You are insulting, sir. I am no heiress, but if there are debts they shall be settled. I do not care about possessions.’

‘A praiseworthy sentiment, but foolhardy.’

The fierce eyes glared at her from beneath jutting brows. ‘You do not expect me to believe you?’

‘You think me a liar as well as a cheat?’

‘Add fool to that assessment of your character and we shall agree. There is not a woman alive who does not prize material goods above all else. I give you that information on good authority.’

‘You speak from experience, I suppose. Well, let us say, my lord, that